


of all the stars i've seen (that shine so brightly)

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Magic, Bruce Wayne is Gotham, Character Study, Dreamscapes, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Personified Cities, Psychic Bond, References to League of Shadows, Soul Bond, the author dreamed about this once and has been struggling to do it justice ever since
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:26:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Something is born again that night in the alley, cloven from her rage and his misery. Something larger than both of them.





	of all the stars i've seen (that shine so brightly)

**Author's Note:**

> One more chapter to follow. Thanks to BSCAO3, Musicgirl4474, and Batwayneman, as always.

The day he’s born, Gotham rejoices.

The streets are still full of waste. Beggars still crouch in the gutters, just as afraid of the next passerby as they are of the man with his hand outstretched. Crime still cleaves through her, a dark webbing vein through a dark city.

But for a brief moment, a ray of sunshine filters through the smog. It glances off her skyscrapers, warms the sidewalks and cracked asphalt that wind through the Narrows.

His first cries are a promise. She sighs along with the Waynes’ breaths of relief. The city is quiet for a night.

She watches as he grows, inch by inch, and the fondness she feels is reflected around him. The street lights grow brighter as he toddles by; the awful scent of sewage is blown downwind, away from his pale face.

_You look like your father,_ she wants to whisper to him, a soft curl of wind against his cheek. He smiles up at her, gumming on a finger. _Bruce..._

Thomas Wayne’s projects span her city, and she can feels their impact in every bright new sheet of metal that is studded to her flesh. Every new program that draws her forgotten children from the shadows. Slowly, but surely, change is coming.

The heartbeat of a city has never raced this fast. Gotham is euphoric with it.

* * *

She tries to urge them away from the dark parts, the shadows that crawl with desperation and greed. She knows what hides there. Thomas Wayne does, too--but she loves her headstrong child, his devotion to bringing light to the darkest corners. He heals with his spirit and vision as much as he does with his hands.

She cries out with Martha as Thomas is shot down in a dark alley, only to be cut down a moment later as pearls and blood splatter the brickway.

Bruce cowers behind their bodies, painfully small. The gun drifts down, aimed at his head.

For a moment, Gotham is deathly still.

It’s all she can do to nudge at the mugger’s mind, push him away with Thomas Wayne’s wallet and a strand of Martha’s pearls clutched in his hand. A passerby, willing to look the other way, suddenly finds himself dialing numbers.

She rages, for a pure moment, outrage swelling up and out of the alley, storming across the city, _her_ city.

Bruce’s eyes go glassy, hands covered in warm blood, already cooling.

Thomas Wayne’s words slip from numb lips, a last benediction to his son, his heir, his legacy. For a second, he looks right through her, _sees_ her, and the light in his eyes dulls.

Something in her dies as well.

She reaches out to her child, holds imaginary arms around him as sirens wail in the distance. She has no hands to grasp his pale face, to press his head into her chest and block the world out. To wipe the blood from his cheeks.

At the mouth of the alley, the street lights burst into a million shards of glass. She is mourning _mourning mourning_ \--

Lieutenant Gordon races down the alley, outrage coloring his face as he recognizes the bodies--tempered a moment later by relief, when he sees Bruce Wayne, bathed in the blood of his parents, but untouched.

She leans down, blessing him with a kiss that whistles like cool wind down the alley.

_I’m so sorry,_ she whispers, as Gordon grabs Bruce, shielding him against the sudden wind.

Chill trips three blocks down, an errant root stretched across the sidewalk. Blood pours from a cut on his face, dripping onto her concrete. She swallows it greedily as he is shackled.

Bruce looks up from Gordon’s shoulder for a moment, as if sensing her bloodlust. Like recognizes like, and, for a moment, they are one.

Something is born again that night in the alley, cloven from her rage and his misery. Something larger than both of them.

She touches his mind one last time as a promise, then fades away.

* * *

“ _Breathe_.”

Bruce exhales, unable to shake the skin-crawling sensation of an exposed back. Ra’s voice whispers across the cedar floorboards, a foot behind and three feet to his left.

The room stills, the silence inverting itself. He hears the pad of footsteps, then the creak of wood. He wills his eyes to remain shut, unnerved by the invisible League members surrounding them.

Low chanting begins as a rumble above him, harsh words in an unfamiliar language that dig into his skull. He flinches, feeling Ra’s hand grasp his shoulder a second later, steadying him.

“Breathe in the smoke,” he says, bracketed by intensifying voices. “Breathe in the League. Accept your destiny.”

Sickly-sweet smoke drifts up toward his face. The absurdity of the moment--the chanting, Ra’s commands, the _magic_ \--is lost as he finally takes a breath. His doubt falls away as shadows thread through his mind, reaching deeper--

He flinches as the shadows snap backward, a cry ripped from his lips. Pain lances through his mind like a hot poker, driving out all traces of the smoke. Ra’s is suddenly pressed against him, gripping his shoulders roughly as he falls backward.

The chanting stutters above him. There is a burning presence in his mind, digging invisible fingers into his brain, dragging him toward unconsciousness.

_No,_ it says, silently, achingly-familiar, _you’re mine._

* * *

The failed ritual sends shockwaves through the compound. Bruce is unconscious for most of the furor, burning through an intense fever that leaves him bedridden for days.

When he wakes, Ra’s is hovering at the foot of his mat, arms crossed.

“I--” Bruce struggles to sit up, fatigue weighing down his movements. He brushes a hand across his face, dazed. “How long was I out?”

Ra’s remains silent. His eyes flick up from the floor, an eerie green in the near-darkness of his room.

“You have a lien on your soul.”

Bruce swallows.

“That’s impossible. I owe my allegiance to the League.”

Ra’s shoulder lifts, then falls.

“The choice is not yours.”

_Then whose is it?_ “Bullshit.”

Ra’s paces the corner of his mat, stopping in front of him. His hand drops to his side, curling around the hilt resting there. “The damage from your ritual killed seven.”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer in the chest. Ra’s face is a mask, no cracks of sympathy for his protege to be found in it.

“You will pack your things tonight,” he says, like the command is ordained, “You will go back.”

It takes a moment for his mouth to work again.

“Back where?” he asks.

Bright green eyes focus on him, sharp.

“Where else?” Ra’s whispers, a flash of teeth in the low light. 

* * *

A few minutes on the private jet, and bantering with Alfred comes back to him easily. They sit across from each other and joke, because the alternative is unthinkable. The butler’s gaze lingers, cataloguing a decade’s worth of changes as they reminisce over shortbread cookie recipes.

(Alfred insists Mother made them with orange zest. Bruce cannot begin to convey how absurd this is)

The flight to Gotham loosens the tightness in his chest with every mile behind them. On the final approach, circling Wayne Tower, his hands begin to tingle, warming slightly where they grasp the armrests.

Alfred disembarks first, chatting briefly with the pilot as the door lowers. Bruce stands and follows him down the aisle, his heart accelerating in anticipation.

The last thing he sees before his foot hits the tarmac is Alfred’s face, narrowed in concern. A shockwave rips through the ground, knocking him off his feet.

It should hurt when his head hits the tarmac. It doesn’t. He relaxes into the scent of oil and dirt, and feels darkness overtake him.

_Home,_ he thinks, and lets go.

* * *

The curtains are flung open, sending a wave of bright light into the room. Bruce hisses, throwing an arm across his face as he burrows back into the pillows.

“Alfred,” he moans, “My _head_.”

“Indeed, Master Wayne,” the butler says, without a shred of sympathy. “Lazing in bed all day will give you quite the headache.”

Bruce ignores the pointed sarcasm, sitting up against the soft feather pillows lining the bed. God, he’d missed mattresses. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling a sudden pain next to his heart.

“What day is it?”

Alfred latches the window open, busying himself by tidying the room. He’s hovering--unwilling to show his concern, equally unwilling to leave the room. “Tuesday.”

In the mirror above the vanity, the circles under his eyes seem to have disappeared. There’s a flush in his cheeks he hasn’t seen in years.

He feels a strange pang of nostalgia as he turns back to the window. In the distance, the city is a few hours into the workday; it’s a rare sunny afternoon in Gotham, brilliantly blue and cloudless.

Alfred’s silence stretches between them. He can feel the unspoken questions, a tension in the air, vibrating like an almost-too-tight guitar string.  

“Alfred,” he says, twisting a hand into the comforter. The down is a reassuring texture under his fingers. “Whatever you thought you saw--”

The butler cuts in, curt.

“Master Wayne, I know exactly what I saw.”

Bruce pauses, biting down on something that tastes suspiciously like denial. “Which was nothing.”

Alfred meets his gaze, a slight quirk to his lips. It’s the same expression from his childhood--a mixture of charmed disbelief and utter certainty.

“Certainly.”

* * *

He dreams of Mother for the first time in years.

The dream begins in an embrace. He knows it’s her without looking up; her perfume has been branded into his mind for decades. The brush of her hair against his cheek, the warm wool under his hands. These are familiar touchstones from a time long past.

“Bruce,” she says, around a smile. Her arms slip away from him. He resists the urge to follow them. He hasn’t ached like this in years--hasn’t felt the burning pain when he swallows, the panic in his chest as she steps back from him, not safe not safe _not safe--_

He inhales slowly, remembering Ra’s words. When he opens his eyes, she’s waiting patiently, hands folded under the cuffs of her mink coat.

For a second, the distance between them flickers. He frowns, struggling to focus. There’s a pit of uncertainty opening in his stomach. _Something isn’t right,_ he thinks, marveling at the sudden clarity of her face. _Why is she here? Something is w--_

“I’ve missed you,” Mother says, and that smile--the elegant curve of teeth, framed by a shade of lipstick he’d committed to memory, a lifetime ago. “Welcome back.”

Her hand reaches out, clasping his and tightening. He wavers slightly as light blooms between them, heat rising through his chest.

“I’m dreaming,” he murmurs, as tendrils of gold thread through them, webbing out between their linked hands. A wave of deja vu hits him, hard enough to make him gasp. His wrist burns even brighter, but their hands remain cool. “I’m...dreaming."

Mother’s gaze meets his, filled with tears. His eyes begin to burn, unable to suppress the swell of emotion building between them.

_I’ve missed you too,_ he wants to say, but the aching in his throat is too much.

Mother squeezes his hand, an unspoken understanding. The dream lights up in supernova, and their fingers slip apart.  

_Bruce_ …

* * *

He sits up in bed, heart hammering. Sweat slicks the sheets beneath him, but he can feel nothing but icy cold, shivers wracking his body.

_Mother,_ he thinks, struggling to catch his breath. In the bay window to his left, the sun had only just begun to touch Gotham’s skyline.

Before he realizes, he’s upright, hand outstretched, hovering above the window. He frames the skyscrapers in the distance in between his fingers, pressing them to the glass.

A spark bursts upwards, hissing as it escapes the space between his hand and the glass. He stumbles backwards, watching as the light scatters into gold embers, flickering on the carpet.

With a stunned breath, he turns and slips back into bed, putting his back to the impending sunrise.

* * *

 “I’ll need the car today, Alfred.”

The butler pauses at the sink, dish in one hand, a bright yellow sponge in the other.

“In need of some fresh air?” Alfred asks, painfully casual. Bruce grins down at his eggs, watching the man’s back tense in curiosity.

“I want to see the city,” he says. It’s the truth, but the declaration sends a strange thrill through him. “It’s been...a long time.”

Alfred sets the dish aside, wiping his hands on a nearby towel.

“Very well,” he says. “I’ll find the keys.”

* * *

The feeling of his shoes on pavement is electrifying.

Something seems to shift in the air--or maybe it’s _him_ , tracing years-old paths through the downtown, the alleys, the Narrows, that has changed. He breathes in the smells of the city, embraces the clamoring tempo of midday, and thinks

_home._

He settles into a strange trance, weaving block by block. He knows, somehow, that he could shut his eyes and walk the entire path blindly; there is a steady heartbeat under his heels, woven into his senses, like he has his fingers threaded through the very essence of Gotham.

He opens his eyes what feels like seconds later, and finds himself kneeling, cobblestone stretching in front of him. He braces a hand against the brick, breathing heavily.

Disbelief churns through him as he spots the sun, half-set in the distance. The sky is a brilliant dark blue. Every instinct he has implores him to get up, to run until he is breathless and stumbling, to put thousands of miles between him and Gotham like he had before, and yet--

“What the _fuck_ ,” he mutters to the ground, a thudding headache growing behind his eyes. His fingers tremble against the brick, searching for _it_ , slowly numbing in loss. “No. No--”

He stands dizzily, flipping his cellphone open. Alfred’s the first speed dial. The _only_ speed dial, he reminds himself, listening to it ring.

The other man picks up on the third tone.

“ _Master Wayne--"_

“Can you come get me?” he asks, softly, small in a way he hasn’t been in years. “I seem to have gotten...lost.”  

“ _I am already en route,”_ the butler says, like there isn’t more than a little worry in his voice. _“An address, if you would?”_

“Sure. I’m at…”

He glances at the streetlamps lining the alley, finding a pair of rusty street signs at the far end.

“...fourteenth, and..”

His heart stutters in his chest. It’s all he can do to keep his voice level as his fingers clench around the cell phone, plastic creaking in his ear.

“...Park Row,” he says, and he doesn’t need to hear Alfred’s inhale to know the other name they’re both thinking, and not saying.

He closes the phone and sits on the curb, hands trembling against his knees.

_Why here?_ he thinks, as headlights turn into Crime Alley. _Why did you leave me here?_

The wind picks up a handful of litter, tossing it down the street. There’s no reply.

* * *

It thunderstorms as he stumbles into bed. Alfred is a comforting presence in the doorway, graciously taking his jacket and dimming the lights. When Bruce finally looks up from the bed, the butler is gone. The room flashes in and out of darkness, backlit by lightning as the storm pounds the Manor grounds.

The headache building between his eyes sends him off to sleep, an arm across his face to block out the light.

* * *

A hand grasps his forearm, gently lifting it away from his face. The fingers gripping the crook of his elbow are strangely familiar. He’s still half asleep. Still completely asleep, maybe. He can barely tell.

“Bruce.”

He squints in the darkness, heart clenching in his chest. A pair of glasses reflects the next lightning strike, and he knows those eyes--

“You’re not real,” he says to his father, voice still sleep-rough. He drags a hand across his face. “I’m dreaming again.”

The smile that follows is painfully familiar. Bruce swallows as the crows feet at the corner of his father’s eyes crinkle.

“Is that what you think this is?”

Bruce eyes the hand pressed to his bedspread, unmarked where his is scarred, a few inches away. His watch--the watch he knows is in a locked vault deep in Gotham National--glints in the low light, unmistakable.

_What did Ra’s do to me,_ he thinks, pressing fingers into his eyes until red and purple bloom behind his eyelids. _What the hell was that ritual…_

“It wasn’t the ritual,” Thomas Wayne says, confidently. Bruce flinches as a hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Bruce. Look at me.”

Light bleeds through his shirt where his hand rests. Bruce meets Thomas’ gaze, noting the same strangeness he’d seen in Mother’s. They were perfect replicas of his memories--and yet, there was an artificial quality to their expressions, almost like they were--

“--acting,” Thomas finishes for him. His shock must be visible. “Sorry, I figured we should just get to the point.”

“You’re not him,” Bruce says. Thomas dips his head in a nod. “Who are you?”

Silence hangs between them. Bruce glances at the bay window, but the sky is still dark, peppered with clouds that hang low to the horizon. The air is heavy with humidity, waiting. Tense.

When he turns back around, the bed is empty.


End file.
